This Reminds Me

Archive for January, 2007

Owing to my recent visit to family in Indiana – and Julia’s impending 7th birthday on February 1 – I have been dwelling on ensuring she is firmly anchored in “today,” since “yesterday” is so murky for her.

I have a request.

I would like to gather “Birthday Wishes” for Julia to give to her when she is a teenager – age 13.  You know, that wretched age when you don’t know if you’re dealing with your sweet baby, or that surly teenager.

I intercept all our girls’ birthday cards and stack them by the red “You Are Special” plate used those festive mornings.  For Julia’s 13th birthday on February 1, 2013, I’d like to place a stack of cards, notes, contact forms, etc. that arrived her first year home.  I’d like her to see that a whole bunch of people were interested in her – cared about her – wanted her to do well.

If you know us, have our address and want to play – Please send me a card or note for her.  Enclose a picture of yourself if you can (Why not paste it in a Word document?), and explain how you know us.  Or just email it to me – I’ll print it and keep it.  Give her a birthday wish for age 13, at the time when kids generally start to question everything about themselves.

If you do send a card or note, please append “Julia’s 13th Birthday” somewhere on the envelope so I know to put it aside.  Otherwise, I’ll think it’s for this year.

If you’re a casual blog reader and want to play, just leave a comment or send me a contact.  I will print them out and include them in her 13th Birthday Wishes stack.

You know how when you’re rocking a baby and you think, “I wonder what she’ll do?  I wonder who’ll she’ll grow up to be?”

Well….this is the earliest picture we have of Guanna-to-be-Julia, pulled from a Russian data base.  Pretend like you’re holding this beautiful toddler.  What would you wish for her?

Guanna-to-be-Julia, we think at about age 2

I wish for you – enough.  Enough time to do what matters.  Enough resources to sustain you.  And enough people people you care about – and care about you – to make it all worthwhile.

Rachel and I made a quick trip to Indianapolis over the long weekend to see family.  I had enough American miles for two tickets, so I picked Rachel to go because she and my cousin Joyce’s daughter Jennifer have a virtual relationship through myspace.  (Lois and Hannah were not – ummm – supportive of this selection.  Big sigh.)

Jennifer and second cousin Rachel circa 1992

And last weekend.

The cold snap caused flight delays all over, including for Rachel and me.  The kids aren’t complaining, though.  Sleet cancelled school today – and tomorrow. They “ice skated” on our deck in their socks.

Many thanks to friends who sent my Aunt Mary recycled Christmas cards.  She’s starting the collages next week!

I joined my cousins in removing property from the home of my recently deceased and childless Aunt Zum (Arizona) and Uncle Russ.  The experience was unsettling.  I am not accustomed to rummaging through other people’s drawers and cabinets, thinking, “Do I want this?   Can I get it back to San Antonio?”  Also, it seemed so sad, that instead of a gaggle of cousins jumping in leaf piles and scheming to avoid her ham loaf, we were fingering her crystal and itemizing our wish lists.

Aunt Zum collected decorative swans, so, I took a small one for each of our four girls.  And then I got to thinking.  Rachel, Lois and Hannah were with Aunt Zum a few times.  They know she was Grandma’s sister.  They know she always remembered their birthdays with a crisp $10 bill.   They know my mom nicknamed her “Zum” (“Zoom”) as a child because she couldn’t say “Arizona,” and Aunt Zum could run so fast. They made cards for her, and heard me talking to her on the phone.

So how to explain an Aunt Zum – and a host of other deceased relatives, like my own mother – to Julia?

Aunt Zum will always be my Aunt Zum.  But I don’t think she will ever be Great Aunt Zum to Julia, who never met her, and for whom she will be represented by a little glass swan and an afghan in the den.  I think Aunt Zum will be “my mom’s aunt” to Julia.

I think part of me recognized this earlier.  When Julia has seen pictures of my mom, I have said, “That’s my mother.”  I’ve never said, “That’s your grandmother.”  Keith’s mother – whom she knows – is her grandmother.

So what does this mean?

I think it means biology can’t be erased.  That’s neither good nor bad, it just “is.”  .

I think it means an adopted child- particularly an older adopted child – needs to be firmly implanted in today, because his or her biological yesterday can be very murky.

I think it means the biggest impacts in life are made by people we know.  Blood is important and ever-present, but flesh is what you propel into a leaf pile, or cover with an afghan, or cuddle against as the sleet whips around.  Flesh sits in your lap and learns to read.  Flesh kisses you good morning and tells you no, it couldn’t possibly be bedtime just yet.

And flesh – well, flesh is what you remember when you’re packing four little glass swans in a Rubbermaid container.

I am thankful for flesh, and for blood, for Indy, for San Antonio and for all the hugs in between.  Without those – well, it’d be even colder inside than outside.

Twenty years ago today, I was arriving in Maharashtra, India, as a member of the first four-woman Rotary Group Study Exchange to a (then) third-world country.  We were to - as all GSE teams were to – build “goodwill and understanding.”   More than 200 young women initially applied.  I will never forget my mom’s bristly response when, after Round 2 interviews, I whined I would never be accepted because I wasn’t as well educated, pretty, graceful, etc. as was my competition.  “You’re as good as any of them.  Hush up, and get ready for the next interview.”  My mother was not the type to lavish compliments, so, my jaw dropped as I began to mentally divine what the Rotary committee might next require.

So we had Kathy-the-CPA, Vicki-the-Phlebotomist, Myra-the-Dentist, and Becky-the-Telephone-Manager, all sporting pennants representing our sponsoring Rotary clubs.  Women were allowed to join Rotary soon after we returned home.  I never did, not from a lack of respect, but simply because I was active in several other organizations and knew I wouldn’t invest myself in it.  Plus I wasn’t keen on the number of Sunday activities.

I visited several telephone offices, including this one with mechanized billing.  The sanitary conditions of the computer room were repeatedly extolled to me.  I had to remove my shoes before entering.  Some of the workers wore white surgical masks.  Then I spotted this bird flying overhead.  It subsequently dumped a smelly surprise on one of the workers.

On my 31st birthday, we toured a bio gas factory.  Lots of cows (producing the bio gas material) and half-naked children roaming about.  This picture represented the country to me – The young with their own ideas held in check by those more senior with waning power.  Today, of course, those younger citizens are in power, in full use of technology and are leading their country, population one billion.  The median age of India today is about 25.

About 25% of the one billion citizens live in grinding poverty.  We were warned repeatedly to ignore beggars, lest we be mobbed.  I began a letter to my mom – who birthed my limbless brother - ”Today I turned my back on an armless beggar woman.  Are you proud of me?”

An Indian Madonna and child.  Note the black eye make-up on the baby, thought to ward off evil spirits.

Far and away – without question – the most memorable visit of our six week tour was to Anandwan, one of two leper colonies run by humanitarian Baba Amte, whom we met in person.  There is no equivalent for lepers in the USA.  Please, no flames about AIDS.  I have balmed the lips of AIDS patients and I have eaten at Anandawn, and there is no comparison to the more humane treatment of an AIDS patient in the USA as opposed to society’s treatment of a leper in India.  Lepers are totally – completely – outcast to die in squalor and pain in the elements.  Or they hobble to Anandwan, a haven of dignity.  The Anandwan colony produces everything it needs except for sugar, salt and kerosene.  They buy those items with profits from producing and selling items like hand-made greeting cards (If you know me well, you’ve probably gotten one or more – I still buy them every few years from Anandwan.)   When a resident dies, they plant a tree over the buried body to help refoliate the country.  Anandwan is an oasis for the soul as well as the body, and I will always feel privileged to have visited.

I hung half-in, half-out a concrete cut-out window in one of Ghandi’s ashrams (houses) to shoot this woman removing impurities from rice.

We visited 14 cities in six weeks, staying with Rotarian host families along the way.  We spoke at innumerable Rotary clubs, guzzled countless cups of chai (tea), and answered unending questions about how our (mundane) lives compared to those portrayed in the hit sitcom “Dallas.”  Our last week, we addressed a crowd of 3,000 Rotarians assembled at a Bombay convention.  Every club meeting we attended, a gracious Rotarian would stand and proclaim, “I propose a vote of thanks” because we were there.

I learned so much that trip.  I learned Rotary – in addition to eradicating small pox – was seemingly the only venue for Muslims and Hindus to peaceably assemble at that time in India.  I learned any obstacles women faced “there” were 100X greater than any faced “here.”  I learned truly ancient civilizations dust every structure – every program – every person with particles of a history not easily cleansed.  I learned achingly beautiful art can be nestled in the most unlikely of places.  I learned you don’t have to have much to share what you have.  I learned despite any feeble protests to the contrary, I am addicted to the comforts of home.   I learned Jesus Christ needs no passport or special training to travel far and long with you.

Kathy, Vicki, Myra and I agreed we’d return to India in 20 years.  By then, we’d be shining stars in our meteoric careers, our (future) kiddos would all be accepted at Harvard and our (future) spouses - corporate giants all - would be entirely supportive of our returning sojourn to the country that taught us so much.

Fast forward.

(sigh)

I do well to squeeze in a mid-week trip to Wal-Mart.

I’m afraid a 20th anniversary trip to India turns left and deadends at Never Gonna Happen.  When I need to be reminded of India now, I call a major company’s technical support line.

But I did learn a lot those six weeks.

And for that, “I propose a vote of thanks.”